Roy Pritchard, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, leans against a chipped red picnic table at the local fire department’s annual summer barbecue, swirling bourbon-spiked lemonade in a plastic cup. He only showed up because his 16-year-old niece begged him to bring the jar of pickled beets he still makes from his late wife’s recipe, and he’d rather chew tinfoil than admit he likes the smell of charcoal and bratwurst curling through the upstate New York air. His worst flaw, as his sister never tires of pointing out, is that he’s spent the three years since his wife passed hiding from any situation that might require him to talk to someone new, holed up in his backyard workshop building Adirondack chairs he never sells, stacking them by the garage like weathered monuments to stagnation.
He’s about to sneak out early when he spots Mara Carter across the lawn, leaning against the dessert table, wiping a smudge of brownie chocolate off her thumb with the edge of her faded sunflower-patterned sundress. Mara is 58, the new town librarian, and the ex-wife of his old high school football rival, now the county sheriff running for re-election. Roy hasn’t spoken to her since 1989, when their kids were in the same fourth grade class, and he’d always written her off as off-limits, even back when they were teens, when he’d catch her staring at him from the bleachers during away games.
She sees him, waves, and walks over, the grass crunching under her white canvas sneakers. When she stops a foot away, the scent of jasmine hand lotion mixes with the smoky barbecue air, and he can see the faint silver streaks threading through her dark wavy hair, the crinkles at the corner of her hazel eyes when she smiles. Her shoulder brushes his when she leans in to yell over a group of kids screaming as they bolt out of the bounce house, and he feels a jolt run up his arm that he hasn’t felt for anyone since his wife died, sharp and warm enough to make him fumble his plastic cup.
They talk for 20 minutes, first about the beets (she says she’s been looking for a good recipe since her mom died), then about the stack of Adirondack chairs she noticed by his garage when she was walking her rescue beagle last week. She says the library’s back patio chairs rotted out over the winter, and her ex was supposed to build new ones, but bailed three months ago to focus on campaigning. When she reaches out to brush a piece of sawdust off the sleeve of his gray flannel shirt, her fingers linger on his forearm for half a second too long, and he has to fight the urge to pull her closer. Part of him twists with guilt, like he’s betraying his wife even thinking about another woman, while another part is screaming that he’s wasted three years of his life hiding from anything that feels good.
She asks if he’d be willing to sell her two of the chairs, and he says he’ll give them to her for free, as a donation to the library. She refuses, insists on paying him, and they bicker playfully for a minute before she says she can follow him back to his place now to look at them, since most people are already packing up to leave. Roy hesitates for a full three seconds, knowing if anyone sees her climb into his beat-up Ford F-150, the small town gossip mill will spin so fast it’ll catch fire, and the sheriff will hear about it before the sun even sets. But then he looks at her grinning, one eyebrow raised, and he nods.
The drive back to his ranch is quiet, the windows rolled down, the smell of pine drifting through the cab. When they walk out to his workshop, the scent of cedar sawdust hits them first, golden sunset light leaking through the cracked cinder block window. She runs her palm over the smooth sanded arm of one of the finished chairs, and says they’re perfect, exactly what she wanted for the patio. She turns to face him, and they’re standing so close their chests almost brush, her breath warm against his neck. He doesn’t move, doesn’t overthink it, when she leans up and kisses him soft on the mouth, the faint taste of chocolate and lemonade on her lips. He kisses her back, slow, the guilt that’s been sitting in his chest for three years melting away like butter on hot toast, and he knows his wife would have teased him for waiting so long to stop moping.
They pull apart a minute later, both laughing a little, a little shy. She says she should bring her beagle over sometime, the dog loves chasing fireflies in big open yards, and he says he’s got an extra bag of peanut butter treats in the pantry that the dog can have. He helps her load two of the chairs into the back of her SUV, and hands her the jar of pickled beets he brought to the barbecue, tells her they taste best with cold fried chicken and a cold beer. He waves as she drives off, her taillights fading down the dirt road, the crickets chirping loud in the grass around him.
He turns and walks back to the workshop, grabs a fresh slab of cedar from the stack by the door, and sets it on his workbench. He runs his thumb over the rough edge of the cedar, already planning to carve a tiny sunflower into the armrest before she comes back.
